Hale's Point (12 page)

“I said, what happened to my clothes?”

He pointed to the pile in the corner, zebra panties et al. “
The’re
right there.”

She glanced at the pile and then glared at him. She looked
like a scruffy, mean little cat. “Who took off my clothes?” she asked more
pointedly.

Tucker came to stand over her. She noted his state of
undress—he still wore shorts and nothing else—and pulled her sheet up higher.
He said, “Dr. Philip
Zelin
, M.D., of the Stony Brook
University Medical Center Department of Internal Medicine, took off your
clothes.”

She squinted, as if trying to remember. “You weren’t here?”

He poured her a glass of water. “Little hair of the dog?”

“You aren’t answering me.”

“That’s a bad habit of mine. You’ve called me on it before.”

“That’s still not an answer.”

“Here, drink this.”

Her lower lip jutted and her eyes glittered ferociously. “Why
aren’t you answering me?”

He sat on the bed and she squirmed away from him. “Because
you are so very, very beautiful when you’re angry. Drink.”

“What is that?”

“Straight vodka. I’ve been pouring it down your throat for
days.”

She swatted at him. “Get
away
from me!”

“First drink this. It’s water.”

She took the glass with the hand that wasn’t holding up the
sheet, but it shook, so Tucker steadied it while she drank.

“Excellent.” he purred demonically. “My plan is working
perfectly.” He traded the glass for the thermometer. “Open up the hangar, here
comes the airplane.”

“That never worked with me.”

“No? And I had such hopes for that one.” He popped it in—
beep
—and popped it out. “Congratulations,
Miss… What’s your last name, anyway?”

“Sayers.
Ms.
Sayers.”

“
Ms.
Sayers, you
are, at long last, normal. Except, of course, for being named after a
motorcycle.”

Harley allowed Tucker to help her stumble up the stairs to
her room, wrapped in the sheet, but then shooed him away, preferring to wash and
dress unassisted—a challenging task. She was confused and uncoordinated, aware
that she had been sick, but fuzzy on the details.

It was almost noon before she sat down to Tucker’s offering
of toast and ice water at the umbrella-shielded table on the patio, only to
find she had no stomach for the toast. It was cooler than the day before, and
overcast. She wore crisp cotton—a sleeveless pink shirt and white shorts—and
her usual ponytail.

She pushed away her plate. “How did you know I was named
after a motorcycle?”

He reached across the table to pour some more water for her. “You
told me. At about 3:00 a.m. You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. “About 3:00 a.m.? Was I awake all night?”

“No, you were mostly pretty much out of it.”

“But
you
were
awake.”

“Yeah, up to a point. I remember the sun rising, so I guess
it was past dawn by the time I conked out. I do know you were down below a
hundred by that time.”

“I had a fever? Was I sick?”

“Heatstroke.”

She groaned and nodded. “Of course. I’m so stupid.”

“You did keep mumbling something to that effect.” He pointed
to the toast. “You’re not going to eat that?” She shook her head, and he picked
up a slice and took a bite.

She was pensive for a few moments. “You sat up all night with
me. You took care of me. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a full mouth.

“And I’m sorry for being so creepy when I first woke up.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.”

“Did you see me naked?”

He sighed, and this time he waited until he had swallowed
before speaking. “Yes.”

She felt heat flood her cheeks. “How can you just say yes
like that? You should lie to protect my feelings!”

His eyes widened and he laughed. “You
want
me to lie to you?”

“Of course! There’s such a thing as being too honest, you
know.”

“No, I don’t know anything of the kind. I don’t lie.” He took
another piece of toast.

“Ever?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Well, try to
avoid
avoiding it with me sometimes.” she said. “Try giving me the answer I want to
hear, just to keep me happy.”

“I don’t
want
to
keep you happy.”

“You don’t—”

“You’re
magnificent
when you’re angry.”

“Good. This is your lucky morning, then, because there’s
something I’m really—” She reined herself in, not wanting to come off as
shrewish, especially after the scene at the pool the night before last. “
Angry
may be too strong a word.
Something I’m curious about.”

“Shoot.” He popped the last of the toast in his mouth and
dusted his hands.

“How come you just sneaked away yesterday morning with no
word at all? I thought you’d left, that you’d gone for good.”

“Did you miss me?”

Yes.
“No.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You could have left a note.”

“I don’t leave notes. I’m bad about things like that.”

“I’ll bet you’re not very good at saying goodbye, either. I
mean, I just get that feeling.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook it. “You’re
right, I’m not.”

“Are you going to smoke?”

“We’re outside. I thought that wasn’t a problem.”

“It’s just that I feel a little woozy. It’s all right. Enjoy
your cigarette, I’ll go inside.” She started to rise.

He quickly replaced the pack and reached out an arm. “Stay.
Please.” She sat again, and he said, “I have a question for you, too. I don’t
understand why you went out in the heat yesterday and pushed yourself till you
dropped. I mean, you were out way too long, you drank way too little. You know
better—you’re a smart woman. What were you thinking of?”

You.
“I don’t know.” He kind of
shrugged, as if to say, is that all? She found she couldn’t look at him. “I don’t
know. It was stupid. I have no explanation.”

His candid brown eyes seemed to search her, looking for a
better answer. Presently he said, “Fair enough.”

Of course, Harley knew it wasn’t fair. She made a practice of
smoothing out life’s rough spots with gentle untruths. So did everyone else she
knew. Except Tucker Hale. He never lied. In their sparring, they used different
weapons: her lies, his truths. She had yet to decide which weapon conferred the
superior advantage.

“Here you are!” came a voice from behind Tucker, and he
turned to see Phil, black bag in tow, rounding the corner of the house. “Can’t
you hear the doorbell from back here?”

“No.” said Tucker. “It comes in handy.”

Phil threw him a look and came straight to Harley, dumping
his bag on the table and taking a seat next to her. Tucker made introductions
as Phil proceeded, without ceremony, to wrap a blood-pressure cuff around her
arm.

When he had his reading, he reached into his back pocket and
tossed a Polaroid snapshot across the table toward Tucker. “What do you think?”

The picture showed the front of a large brick Colonial house
surrounded by boxwoods.

“Thirty-four-hundred square feet,” Phil said as he took
Harley’s temperature. “I built it nine years ago. It’s on that cul-de-sac at
the end of Windward Lane. Four bedrooms, three and a half baths, master suite
with Jacuzzi, finished basement with wet bar, new oak kitchen with Sub-Zero
fridge, all new wall-to-wall. It’s on half an acre, professionally landscaped.”
Beep.
“Great, cool as a
cuke
.”

Harley aimed a quizzical look in Tucker’s direction. “He
wants me to trade him my new Jaguar for his house,” he explained.

She cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

Tucker said, “What you have to understand about Phil is, he’s
always had this peculiar sense of humor, and sometimes it’s not too clear when
he’s joking and when he’s for real.”

“This is not a joke,” Phil said, looping his stethoscope
around his neck. “My house for your Jag, and I’ll throw in the window
treatments.” To Harley he said, “You want to unbutton your blouse, please?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she looked toward Tucker, who
rose. “I think I’ll go have a smoke.”

He sat on the stone wall overlooking the beach. On the Tilton
side, Jamie, Brenna, and Baby Lily frolicked in the surf. The current Mrs. T.,
Mimi, lay on a towel reading. Despite the gray sky, all of them wore swimsuits,
with the exception of the baby, who was naked. Brenna’s thong bikini was lime
green with big pink polka dots.

After a few minutes, Phil joined him and delivered a
favorable report on Harley’s condition. Tucker looked back toward the patio,
where she reclined in her chair, head back, eyes closed, and thought,
Thank God.

Phil said, “That’s some pool
R.H.
put in. There’s an
inground
pool behind my house, did
I mention that? Not Olympic-size or anything, but who needs that much water in
their backyard?”

Tucker nodded toward the Sound. “As far as my father was
concerned, there could never be too much water in his backyard.”

“Guess not.” Phil breathed deeply of the salt air. “I always
loved this beach. I missed it when the old man wouldn’t let me come over
anymore. I’m near the beach now. Oh, that’s another thing—the house is a
five-minute walk from the Sound. Learned to sail so I could fit in with my
neighbors and discovered I liked it. Got a nice little Flying Scot I call the
Pacemaker
. She’s no
Anjelica
—just nineteen feet—but I’m
crazy about every one of them. You should take her out while you’re here.”

“I’d like that.”

“About the house,” Phil continued. “I replaced the water
heater two years ago, and added a deck the year before that.”

“Doesn’t Kitty have something to say in all this? She might
not like you trading her home for a car.”

A pained look crossed Phil’s face. He glanced briefly toward
Harley, motionless in her chair. “Let’s go down and walk on the beach.”

Tucker shook his head and indicated the leg. “Can’t.”

Phil looked him in the eye. “What happened?”

“Flew my plane into the side of a mountain.”

Phil’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t see it coming?”

Tucker said, “My turn to ask a question. What happened with
you and Kitty?”

Phil groped for his cigarettes. Tucker lit one for each of
them.

“We’re separated,” Phil said.

Disappointment bloomed within Tucker. “What happened? You’ve
been together forever.” Tucker had introduced them when they were teenagers—the
slightly bent cabbie’s son from Brentwood and the cool blond heiress from Hale’s
Point—and was surprised when they took up together, stunned when he found out
they were engaged. He even tried to talk Phil out of it, worried that their
dissimilarities couldn’t support a marriage. Yet, during his infrequent phone
conversations with Phil over the years, his friend had painted a bucolic
picture of the union. More than once he thanked Tucker for bringing her into
his life, told him how crazy he was about her, how empty life would be without
her.

“I made a mistake,” Phil said, his voice practically a
monotone. “About six months ago. There was this nurse.” Tucker groaned. “It got
back to Kitty. She took the boys and went back home, back to the castle.” Kitty’s
parents owned the largest house in Hale’s Point, a Gothic Revival monstrosity
just down the road. “Now my lawyers talk to her lawyers. I haven’t seen her
since she left. She won’t return my calls. She’s… she’s very proud.”

“Of course she is,” Tucker said. “Any woman would flip out,
Phil. No wife likes her husband to have an affair.”

“It wasn’t even an affair. It was twenty minutes in a broom
closet, for God’s sake. Twenty minutes, and there goes my whole marriage—my
whole life!” Suddenly Phil’s proposed trade of his house for Tucker’s Jag
seemed not so much funny as poignant. He was losing almost everything—why not
give away the rest? “It was the first time—how’s that for irony? I was tempted,
I was restless. I figured Kitty would never find out, no harm would come of it.
Don’t ever cheat on your wife, Tucker, no matter what the temptation. I mean,
if you ever get married.”

“They’ll be flinging snowballs in hell when I make that
mistake. Marrying, not cheating, although I’m not a big fan of that, either.
You know how I feel about marriage. Fidelity is only one of its drawbacks, but
it’s a big one. If you get married, you’re making a commitment. One person
forever. If you stay single, you can have all the broom closets you want, and
it doesn’t matter.”